


Your Eyes

by Pixeled



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Gun Violence, M/M, Manipulation, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, forced blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixeled/pseuds/Pixeled
Summary: “My father had red eyes. My grandfather. His father. No matter who they married, what color their eyes were, the Valentines all had red eyes. No girls. Just boys. Boys with red eyes.” It’s the longest thing he’s said in weeks. He hasn’t killed anyone in weeks, hasn’t said anything past a cursory response to this man’s fiancée who likes to talk out loud when she works, likes to ask questions he can’t possibly answer. He feels like he’s been put out to pasture having been sent here.





	Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustofwarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/gifts).



> Written for dustofwarfare again, who is the Hojo to my Vincent. <3 This is based on a part of our RP.

“Your eyes,” he says, hunched over his keyboard, his long fingers jamming out words, figures, assigning numbers to faces, making them faceless amorphous things. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t look, doesn’t give him anything but his back. Always his back, his hair a long severe twist of black.

“My eyes?” He asks, fingers on his holster. He’s bored, and he’s surprised, though he doesn’t let that creep into his voice. This man never talks to him, reserves him his sneers, his condescending looks, letting him know with just his black black judging eyes hidden behind glinting glasses just what he thinks of the Turks.

“Yes. Your eyes. Are they naturally red?” The screen is too bright in the dim lab. Lighted tanks filled with sightless things illuminates the darkness, his exacting computer screen assigning them meaning where perhaps there wasn’t any. It used to make him shudder to see their filmy eyes watching him unseeingly. Now he regards them as if they are simple furniture, just part of a morbid scene.

“Didn’t know you noticed,” he says. He is just another cog in the wheel, after all—an ugly monster in a pretty pressed suit.

“Answer the question, boy,” he says, his voice like a spitting viper.

“Yes,” he says back, though he doesn’t know why he’s talking. He’s supposed to be a silent guardian, a faceless sentinel.

“Intriguing. Is it an abnormality?” Keystrokes. Always keystrokes. They seem louder, angrier, faster. And then they stop, and the dark-eyed man swivels in his chair to face him, glasses glinting, reflecting all the dark horrors in the basement.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he snaps, turns back around, types. “Don’t tell me. I don’t care. Why did I bother?”

“My father had red eyes. My grandfather. His father. No matter who they married, what color their eyes were, the Valentines all had red eyes. No girls. Just boys. Boys with red eyes.” It’s the longest thing he’s said in weeks. He hasn’t killed anyone in weeks, hasn’t said anything past a cursory response to this man’s fiancée who likes to talk out loud when she works, likes to ask questions he can’t possibly answer. He feels like he’s been put out to pasture having been sent here.

“Did you know your father?” he asks after a time.

“Sort of.” He remembers his back. His big office. His equations—his language, unknown to him. He didn’t really know him. They spoke different languages. They said nothing to each other. He doesn’t know his mother. His father didn’t speak about her. He made assumptions, but he didn’t know the truth. When he watched other children hug their parents, his eyes turned cold. Maybe that’s why he could drain the life from other people’s eyes—because he has no history of love or kindness. Only equations. Long hand-written equations on a desk with a man who had his back turned on him.

“He was careless, or so I’m told. I’d like to take blood samples from you.” He gets up off the chair. When he turns, Vincent expects his front to be hollow, shadow where his face lies, unseeable. But he can see his eyes, and they are trained on him. He gets the necessary equipment. A butterfly needle, a tourniquet, a number of tubes with different colored tops, a bandage, an alcohol swab, a cotton ball, and two microscope slides.

“Why?” he asks.

“Curiosity. I am bored, Valentine.” He doesn’t expect that answer. He’s bored, too. Hasn’t killed anyone in weeks, stares at the backs of two people’s heads like they have no fronts. Professor Hojo gestures toward a metal chair that has a table attached. “Take your jacket off and roll up your sleeve.”

Vincent blinks, looks at him as if he hadn’t heard.

“Do it, boy.”

He feels naked without his jacket concealing his gun holster, but he takes it off, rolls up the sleeve to his dominant arm. Sits. Hojo stands over him, gets to work securing the tourniquet over his bicep. It’s too tight. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t expect kindness. Hojo slides the needle into his vein and blood flows down the small plastic wire. He connects the tubes one by one, then straightens Vincent’s arm, holds it over the slides, lets drops of blood blot it, then presses a cotton ball to the crook of his arm and moves his forearm up for him to block the flow of blood. He opens the bandage while Vincent holds his arm up and then tapes it into place. It’s all a dance, a methodical dance. Hojo walks over to a centrifuge and slides off the cover, places the tubes there to spin, closes the cover. He takes the slides over to a large microscope, places a cover over the blood on the slide and puts it under the microscope. He adjusts the knobs, looks through the eyepiece. It reminds Vincent briefly of looking through a gun scope.

As he rolls his sleeve back down and puts his jacket back on, Vincent watches Hojo look at his blood in the microscope lens. He takes the slide out, replaces it with the remaining one, confirming what he sees.

“Interesting,” Hojo comments. When he doesn’t elaborate Vincent asks.

“What’s interesting?”

“Your blood has certain properties I’ve only ever seen in textbooks. It is rare indeed.” He waves Vincent over, gestures at him to look. Vincent looks through the eyepiece—doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Little blobs, which he can only surmise to be cells, dance in their translucent little shadows.

“What am I looking at?” Vincent asks.

“Your blood cells have a unique shape. I’ve come across it in my studies in mako resistance. You would have to be doused with a significant amount of mako to be affected. Perhaps your eye color was a hint of this, but I have never read about red eyes. Never knew they existed before I met you. There is a certain excitement when a scientist learns about the existence of something rare.”

“Glad to be of service,” Vincent said dryly.

Hojo tossed the slides in the trash, turned off the microscope light, and returned to his typing, silent. Vincent resumed his silent looming, pressed against the wall.

“Do be of service and get me some tea,” Hojo said after a while of hammering on his keyboard. Vincent raised a delicate black brow.

“I’m a Turk, not an errand boy.”

“I haven’t seen you actually be of use yet, so do be a good boy and do something useful, hmm? Make sure the tea is strong. Think you can handle it?”

Vincent uncrossed his arms and shoved off the wall, leaving the man to go do as he asked. He wasn’t sure why he did it, exactly. He almost expected Lucrecia to be in the kitchen, humming in the way she did when she wasn’t aware someone was watching, but the kitchen was regrettably empty. He made the tea and placed it in a cup he yanked from the creaky cabinet that looked like fine china and placed it on its accompanying saucer, returning to the basement to put it in front of Hojo. He had considered spitting in it to be spiteful, but he didn’t.

Hojo turned to face him as he blew on the hot tea. “Ah, it can follow directions, my guard dog,” Hojo sneered, sipping at the strong black tea. His eyes peered into the depths of Vincent’s soul as he drank.

“Are you going to stare at me, or work?”

“Simply wondering what other commands my guard dog knows. Does it beg for scraps?” Hojo’s eyes had an amused glint to them.

“Fuck you,” Vincent sneered.

“Oh, it has a temper, then? I do doubt your bite is worse than your bark, dear boy.”

“You know nothing about me,” Vincent said, crossing his arms over his chest. He ignored the urge to touch his gun in its holster, to threaten.

“I know you are supposed to stay in your place. That you are to follow orders. And I know you hate this assignment. Hate me. But you don’t hate Doctor Crescent, do you, hmm, Valentine?” At the mention of Lucrecia Vincent almost flinched. “Oh, you think I don’t know how you moon over her? This is my project and I care to know everything that goes on, my lapdog. And I know that you are not loyal. That you blatantly wish to throw in my face that you have kissed my fiancée. Fucked her, even. Did you think she wouldn’t tell me? That what you had was special? I don’t keep a leash on her, Valentine. She is free to do as she wishes. She was merely using you.”

“Are you done?” Vincent asked. His hand had reflexively gone to his pistol.

“Are you planning to shoot me, Valentine? Because we both know you are a sniveling coward. I read your file, you know. I know why you were sent here. And it has everything to do with you not following orders.”

Vincent could see Veld’s face when he told him about the assignment. How maliciously vacant his eyes were. He had done what he did to protect him. Veld carelessly told him he didn’t need saving, that Vincent had violated his orders, blatantly disregarded them to put that bullet in that target’s heart. And it had been years since Veld touched him, but he still put a bullet in Tiffereth’s head. Rule number one, Veld reminded him, don’t get involved with the target. It was bad enough he could be expelled from the Turks for his involvement with Veld, but to have a romance with the target? Veld put an end to that for him. Instead of expelling him, which meant execution, he had sent him here. He had no choice.

He thought it was classified information. How had Hojo found this out?

“I ask again, boy, are you going to shoot me? Because a bullet in my brain is a bullet in yours. Your choice.”

Vincent’s hand dropped.

“Good boy,” Hojo crooned, sipping tea.

“How did you find that information?” Vincent asked.

“I did a bit of digging. Just because I’m not a Turk doesn’t mean I don’t have my own methods. And I can blackmail you very easily, so think before you deny my next request. Get on your knees in front of me.”

“What?” Vincent blanched.

“Don’t tell me you’re deaf as well as dumb,” Hojo sneered. “Come over here and kneel like a good dog.”

“Hojo . . .”

“It’s Professor Hojo. And sir to you. Now. Do I have to repeat myself, or make a call?”

Vincent came forward and got on his knees in front of Hojo, staring at him hatefully.

“Good boy. Now, unzip my pants and take out my cock.” He placed the cooling tea back on its saucer and put it on the desk, sitting forward, arms on the hand rests of his chair. Vincent paused, but went to work on Hojo’s belt, pulled the zipper of his pants down, and extracted Hojo’s stiff cock. “Give me your gun,” he said blandly, as if he were asking a routine thing of Vincent. He paused again, but then took his gun from its holster beneath his jacket and handed it to Hojo, who thumbed the safety off and pressed it to Vincent’s head. “Now suck. Don’t use teeth, and make it good, or I’ll pull the trigger.”

Vincent slowly opened his mouth and descended on Hojo’s cock, taking it in deeply, its entirety back against his throat, fighting not to gag.

“You’ve done this before,” Hojo said, a pleased smile ghosting on his lips. Vincent only started sucking him up and down, up and down, eyes hatefully focused on Hojo’s. “Those eyes. Mmm. Those hateful crimson eyes. How beautiful you are, my guard dog. Suck harder.”

Vincent used his hand to stroke the base of Hojo’s cock while he deep throated him over and over, spit shining on his lips in the low light. Hojo stared into his eyes, dug the gun deeper into his head, and moaned tersely.

“Vincent Valentine, son of the great Grimoire Valentine, nothing but a common cock sucker. I do hope he’s rolling in his grave. Is this how you service the Turks, boy? On your knees? You do look lovely down there.”

Vincent wanted to spit in his face, bite his dick, but that gun—his gun—pressed harder. He felt like he might die of shame, but he did not. He had spent many years enduring Veld’s abuse because he didn’t know any better. Abuse felt like love felt like acceptance. He had never gotten Grimoire’s attention, but he had Veld’s, and that was enough to swallow the shame of being his fuck toy until he didn’t want him anymore, like he was a used up whore. He was nothing but a whore and Hojo’s thick cock in his mouth proved it. He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, and made Hojo come. He tried to move off his cock to spit his come out, but Hojo laughed and held his head down over him, growling for him to swallow, so he did. When it was done, Hojo slapped him hard across the face and he fell back.

In the end, Hojo handed him his gun back and tucked himself back into his pants, returning to his work. The worst part was that Vincent couldn’t retreat, couldn’t go off to be alone. He had to stay there and protect Hojo with his life.

“When the results of the tests on your blood come back, I will tell you,” Hojo said, nonchalant.

In the end, Vincent was forced to glare hatefully at Hojo’s back.

 


End file.
